


Removed

by minkmix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, BAMF Sam Winchester, M/M, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychological Torture, Torture, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-04-28 17:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14454672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkmix/pseuds/minkmix
Summary: As if all fanfiction isn't pure indulgence, but hurt!Dean is a big one for me HOWEVER even better is something I haven't written often if at all.... It's just well... nice... and I'd rather find it out there than write it myself. SO in request and fellow writer jinkamoo, I give you a what I find almost better than a bowl of cheesecake icecream on top of a warm brownie while I sit on an evening beach on a southern isle while I listen to Simon Lebon apologize for their last album and take shrooms and then have a three way with Bale, Hauer (circa Bladerunner) and Alba.Okay, maybe not that good, but I do have a thing for abducted!(adult)Dean.A huge thing. :D D:-Mink





	1. part 1

It wasn't the first bar Dean had closed all by himself.

As soon as that clock hit the magical hour and the forgotten fluorescent lights came on, he always got that half tired, half annoyed look by the bartender. It was a look that made you tip back the rest of your beer real quick no matter how full it was. When he got off the bar stool he realized he was a little bit more buzzed than he thought he was. Sober enough for his keys and to walk a straight line to the door, but his head felt heavy and there was an edge of exhaustion that alcohol always made worse.

With a yawn he breathed in the night air and stretched. The motel was barely a five minute drive away, he could have walked it if he didn't mind the drizzle of cold rain. Shuddering, he pulled his jacket collar up and crossed his arms tight against his chest to ward off the late February weather. But it turned out he did mind the rain so his ride was sitting there all by her lonesome waiting to take him home.

He had only taken a few steps when he stopped in his tracks.

It seemed like he wasn't quite as alone as he thought he was.

He was going to say something, draw them out and determine their numbers maybe even talk his way right to his car and avoid any kind of mess that would leave the unwary of what he could do, bleeding and baffled on the pavement. He wasn't in any kind of fucking mood for some six-packed farmer's kids with nothing better to do. Dean was watching the one in front of him so intently, he didn't notice the sound of another coming up behind him until it was too late.

It was on before it was even on.

Hands from behind pulled his arms, twisting his wrists hard and upwards into the small of his back. Automatically, Dean crashed the back of his head violently into the face of his attacker. The heavy thud of his skull cracking against flesh, savage cursing through ragged breaths and the iron grip slackened.

He felt a small damp spot of blood cooling on the back of his head. Blood in the eyes would not stop most men who wanted you dead for very long. The large man at his back wiped blood away like sweat. Dean shifted uncomfortably in place, fists ready. It was going to take some time to bring that one down. He backed up slowly when the other two came closer forming a rough circle around him. These men were no liquored red necks looking for trouble. They were too organized and careful. Their moves were professional not the sloppy fists of a few town drunks.

Dean went still and cold with the realization that these men might be hunters.

He moved quickly, ducking when the large man lunged for him again, a roundhouse kick forcing him backward into the brick wall of the building adjoining the parking lot. His fist swung out and was caught, arm twisted painfully, his shoulder popping in its socket. With a shout, he broke free of the hold and backed away and into the waiting grip of another.

He had no time to regain himself when the second set of arms locked around his waist and slammed him roughly onto the hood of a waiting car. Freezing metal at his back shocked his bare flesh where his shirt rode up, teeth clenching against the shock. He was silently grateful that the impact snapped his pained shoulder back into place. Dean gasped, throwing a blind punch to repel the large body bearing down on him. His fist struck his attacker's chest uselessly, the solid mass unmoving as hands closed around his throat, crushing his airway. A swift hard upwards kick sent the large man reeling backwards. Dean rolled behind the car, back pressed hard against the brick wall alongside it.

"This is fun fellas, but I don't wanna play anymore..." He wheezed, breath clouding in the chill air. Whatever these men were, hunters or not, they were good at their game and outweighed him by a few hundred pounds.

But they were nothing a bullet couldn't handle.

Feeling for the pistol strapped to his ankle, he wrenched it free of its strap. Two shapes loomed in the distance. Dean flexed his hand on the warmed metal of his firearm, the safety clicking in the silence of the empty lot. Dean waited, crouched behind the body of a black Camaro.

His eyes shifted, catching a shadow of rapid movement from above.

"Oh sh-"

He had no time. His muscles tensed, ready to dodge when a third massive weight from the darkness above came crashing down on him, his gun firing off before clattering to the ground. Dean saw white as the back of his head smacked the ground, his limbs pinned in the tangle. Cursing he tried to scramble out and to the side but the body tackled him, shoving his shoulders hard into the wet asphalt.

"Get offa me!" He growled, kicking and seizing frantically beneath the crushing weight on top of him.

"Heh! You just relax." His captor said breathlessly as he moved a knee to rest it hard on Dean's injured shoulder. "Can feel you gettin' tired already."

"Check him for any more weapons."

Dean's rage exploded in a ragged yell, chest heaving, lungs burning, muscles drawn to their limit against the hold keeping him firmly in check as another roughly patted him down. His knife was tossed aside and his wallet was taken and carefully examined. The smaller blade on his forearm was removed and they dug into each of his jean pockets until they found the razor blade he kept for special occasions.

"Pick 'im up."

The two waiting shadows were closing in around him. Forcibly he was dragged to his feet and held, thick arms encircling his chest, locking his arms at his sides.

Fists raw and bloody clenched. Adrenaline pumping through every fiber. Dean strained in the man's grip, trying to wrest his arms free when one of the men moved swiftly in front of him and swung, knuckles landing hard in the softness of his belly. Dean choked, insides exploding in a burst of pain. He doubled over, gasping, unable to get his breath back, his vision filled with hot white sparks as his head emptied of oxygen.

"That all... you got?" He managed.

With a hard and precise clip to his jaw, Dean's head snapped sharply up and against the solid chest behind him. Blood trickled fast from his mouth where his teeth had cut, warm wetness on his chin. Dean felt his body go limp, knees buckling, supported only by the arms holding him up.

Wrong place? Wrong time maybe? No way. These men had a purpose.

"The brother." He heard one of them say through his haze. "He's a big fella."

"Uh-huh." Came the disinterested reply.

"You go near my brother..." Dean wheezed, red flecked on his lips and fighting for focus. "...it'll be the last thing you do."

"Shut him up." Said the soft voice.

He expected more pain. A sharp crack to the skull and a brief explosion of agony to send him hurtling instantly into oblivion. Or maybe a violent jab to the nerve where the shoulder met the neck. Instead, he heard the sickening scrape of duct tape.

Flinging his head from side to side, he struggled weakly as a wadded rag was stuffed into his mouth before the tape was pressed firm and uncomfortably over his mouth. Dean's body had given up without him, lungs heaving, head tossing back and forth in anger, able to do nothing but glare at his captors. From over one tall shoulder, Dean glimpsed the other two observing silently.

"Settle down." A voice at his ear advised softly.

The grip around his chest tightening until Dean started to feel his air begin to be taken again. His struggles ceased slowly as each time he drew in a breath the hold grew more constricting. The third man, the one who had fallen on him, withdrew a large hunting knife from its sheath. Instantly Dean froze at the hiss of sharpened steel in the dark.

"We wanna word with you."

The click of a Zippo and the dull glow of a lit cigarette ignited the man's eyes for an instant before getting swallowed once more by darkness. Acrid bitter smoke on his breath as he leaned forward, slowly exhaling in Dean's face.

If Dean could talk he would have asked a question. If these guys were looking for John Winchester they were already a little too late. Their father was gone and not even his own sons could reach him even if they wanted too. Whatever debt, promise or liabilities his father had failed to produce was out of his hands. These men, as they say, were shit out of luck.

The ember of the cigarette glowed like an insect hovering in the dark.

"We know what your brother did." The man said. "Known for a while."

Green eyes twitched, throat working behind the gag. A strangled noise--between a snarl and a shout-- rose and died in his throat, stopped by the tape. The cool flat of the knife passed over his gaze, wiping the dampness at his forehead. How could these men possibly know about Sam? They'd been so careful, hell, Dean didn't even know the full story.

"Used that computer and got us all wanted," he added. "Do you know how hard it is to do our job when the goddamn feds are on our ass?"

Dean blinked. Computer?

"Took all our names and faces. Used them all up," he growled. "Did ya have fun? Playin' cowboy?"

Dean's mind slowly registered what the man was talking about. And it had nothing to do with his younger brother’s night time magical visions. Sam frequently trolled the social security data bases for the names and info on deceased citizens so they could... borrow them. But sometimes that wasn't even enough to get into some hidden places and more hidden people that only trusted the type that walked in the dark. So Sam had found the names of several people that almost every hunter knew or had a story about. There were several of them and they had usually worked together. Word on the street had been they caught up with the wrong end of a black coven and hadn't been heard from since.

Their demise had been nothing but lucrative for him and Sammy. Dropping their names had opened more than a few doors for them on a hunt.

But they were supposed to be dead. It was supposed to be safe.

Dean knew about the profound safety of the inept and lumbering pace of the governmental system in paper work and red tape. When things got that comfy Sam didn't quite use all the fail safes he usually would with other aliases. Those identities had been left wide open to be traced by the powers that be if anyone was so inclined. What did it matter? Those men were long gone and food for the crows.

Dean swallowed hard as it all came together.

Oops.

The man smiled, removing his cigarette from his mouth and letting it hang between his fingertips.

Dean's chest heaved silently, fury in his gaze as his eyes followed the knife's point settling on the tender flesh below. Chest hitching, he felt his vision swim and braced himself.

A curiously gentle face, obscured by shadow, was inches from his.

"We got rules. Understand? And you and your brother need to start respectin 'em. Hell if John ever did." He spat on the ground at the name. "Wonder why he ain't around no more?"

A small angry noise escaped him behind the gag at the mention of his father, eyes wide and watering with useless outrage.

We looked real hard for Sam," the man patted Dean hard twice on the cheek. “But then we learned, all we really had to do was find his big brother."

Dean blinked back the frustration stinging his eyes.

“And now?" he finished with a smile. "Now we think Sam just might come out lookin' for us instead."

Dean was being dragged, his feet made to move as he was forced face down against the hood of a car. He yelled again behind the gag as his arms were gripped behind him, flexing madly against the plastic cinch cord cutting tight into the flesh of his wrists.

Before he knew it his boots were leaving the ground, a shoulder digging painfully into his bruised middle as he was lifted. Dean bit down on the cry of pain as he was carried away, the ground moving fast and dizzily below him. He frantically worked his hands in the restraints, feeling them slide slick with sweat. Dumped ungracefully into the trunk of a vehicle, he fought not to gag behind the tape on the powerful fumes of petrol. When the lid closed on him with a thud, he let his eyes close with it. The passenger doors slammed shut.

Dean felt the rumble of the engine beneath him before the sickening lurch of movement.

He was in real fucking trouble.


	2. part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if all fanfiction isn't pure indulgence, but hurt!Dean is a big one for me HOWEVER even better is something I haven't written often if at all.... It's just well... nice... and I'd rather find it out there than write it myself. SO in request and fellow writer jinkamoo, I give you a what I find almost better than a bowl of cheesecake icecream on top of a warm brownie while I sit on an evening beach on a southern isle while I listen to Simon Lebon apologize for their last album and take shrooms and then have a three way with Bale, Hauer (circa Bladerunner) and Alba.  
> Okay, maybe not that good, but I do have a thing for abducted!(adult)Dean.  
> A huge thing. :D D:  
> -Mink

Hunters knew how to treat their own.

They knew all too well that Dean was capable of making an escape out of the most complex restraints with the most unlikely and rudimentary objects. The first thing they had done was search his clothing almost inside and out, and take away everything but his jeans with turned out pockets, and his boots without laces.

Seeing his life scattered on the floor, his effects laid out before him and sifted through by strange hands made him almost angrier than having his ass handed to him. If he didn't have a rag stuffed half down his throat he would have asked why not do a goddamn full body cavity search while they were at it. After a few moments of reflection he was glad that the tape kept his thoughts to himself.

They were very pleased when they had discovered his phone.

He had been hoping against hope that it had gotten left in that parking lot or at least smashed to pieces while they were busy kicking his ass. But it figured the damn thing would go on the fritz if he sat on it but now after being tossed up and down and across the pavement it seemed to be working just perfectly.

They had left him in the corner, looking over at him occasionally when he rolled over onto his side or moved in any way.

They hadn't been messing around when they had chosen exactly what they would require to keep a human being with his track record of escape in one place. He had been actually shackled, his wrists encased with two steel unbending lengths. The center of it had a heavy duty chain attached that lead down to the same that had been fastened under his boot leather over his ankles. The chain was just short enough that he either had to be sitting up almost in a crouch, or laying on his side in an almost fetal position.

It sucked.

His muscles were cramping bad already and he knew from catching a glimpse at their watches that it wasn't even dawn yet. The tape across his mouth itched and burned, and the rag over his tongue was dry and irritating.

The three didn't talk all that much, passing his phone to each other as they went through it thoroughly, recording names and numbers, dates and God knows what else he had stored on there. He shut his eyes after a while, shivering slightly against the tile of the floor, his bare skin touching its cold surface. The room was in perfect dimensions in his head. Where the doors were. The lack of windows. The stainless steel table that sat in its center.

From what he could smell, cleaners and some underlying lingering stench of uncooked meat, he thought maybe these guys had done themselves up mobster style and set up shop in the back of an old butcher's. He wasn't quite sure where that put him in the scheme of things but by the next day, when his eyes opened to the sudden glare of fluorescent lights, he knew they had an interest in keeping him alive.

At least for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lights came on with a distant soft buzz.

Dean sat up awkwardly as his chain was yanked sideways, forcing him up off the floor. He could see the man's watch easily from here. Had he actually slept for three hours? It was dawn now. Somewhere outside Sam would be just waking up and wondering where the hell he was.

He braced himself as the man reached for his mouth.

The tape was peeled back, the feel of it off his skin was blissful, the rag pulled out made him cough, his throat burned and his tongue ached.

"Water." The man said.

Dean looked at the water bottle and decided two things.

The first thing was that he wanted water so badly he wouldn't put it beyond his abilities to throttle this man with his bound hands if the guy attempted to deny him any. The second was that he had no idea what was in that water and there was no way in hell he was drinking anything these bastards tried to give him. He swallowed painfully, slowly becoming aware that this situation was meant to be and might end up being long term.

The bottle was pressed up hard against his lips.

"N-no thanks." Dean rasped, his voice hoarse and unused. The man's sigh told him he was in trouble.

"Son." The man smiled, trying again to reason with him. "Be easier if you just drank. I promise there ain't nothing in it."

"Yeah, forget it. I ain't drinking your goddamn roofie."

When the explanation came, Dean felt his stomach twinge a little.

"Do you know what the Vietcong did to prisoners of war that refused drink and food?"

Dean slumped a little back against the wall, unable to hold the position he'd been pulled in without the man's arm up under his own to support him.

"You see, they didn't want them to die. Suffer sure, but any officer death was bad news."

Dean swallowed again, the tone in the man's voice dropping like when he'd heard his father talk about the war. It was a veteran’s voice. A veteran that knew what he was talking about first hand.

With a small apologetic smile, he held up a length of clear plastic tubing.

He grabbed Dean hard by the chin, forcing him down onto the floor onto his back, his lower body twisted awkwardly the other way because of the chain. Dean reacted by bringing his knee up, making perfect contact with the side of the guy's face.

The fist that came back in retribution came down like a hammer. Dazed, Dean shook his head of stars as he vaguely felt his chin taken up again.

"N-No--sto-"

He felt himself gagging as the tube was pushed down his throat, there was a terrible moment when he couldn't breathe at all, his hands coming out to grab at the hands at his face. Another merciless strike downwards and he saw white, struggling to open his eyes in time to see the bottle of water twisted neatly into the tubes end. He coughed and gagged as it went down, his throat working around it convulsively, lungs hitching for air.

"You don't comply, we'll do this three times a day." He told him assuredly. "Food, once every other day."

Dean groaned and squeezed his eyes shut as the tube was withdrawn too quickly, his jaw finally allowed to slack, salvia wetting his lower lip and running down his chin. He realized he was shaking, his stomach churning with the forced water, he fought not to bring it back up.

"Do you understand me?"

"You - you fucking bas-"

The next strike sent Dean's head crashing into the wall, and after everything went white once again, it quickly seeped and stayed into the black.

 

 

 

 

 

"Yes, hello?"

Dean heard himself moan, his hands were still trapped, his ankles raw in his loose boots from twisting them in the metal clasps. His sore mouth had the rag back in it, a fresh new sharp smelling piece of tape held it firmly in place.

"Yes! Hello and good afternoon, I'm really sorry to have bothered you but--"

Dean rolled over, his chains and shackles making a loud noise when he landed in the other direction. The men were back, the one who had force fed him was holding his phone and talking to someone on it.

"Yes, I know, you see I found this cell phone last night in a parking lot and I thought I'd give it a try, you know, try to get it back to who it belonged." He said good naturedly.

Dean studied him, one of his eyes had swelled half way shut. His head throbbed and his stomach felt empty and sick. Who the hell was this prick talking to?

"I know I'd hate to lose mine! Can barely get out the door without it!"

He was talking to Sam. Oh God. Dean heard a small sound in the back of his throat. He couldn't yell. He couldn't even talk for that matter. He couldn't get Sam's attention from all the way over here and like this. Frustrated, he kicked his boots hard into the wall behind him. It unintentionally jerked the chain short and tight between his legs. With a harsh loud moan, Dean sank painfully back into the fetal position.

The men ignored him.

"Well, I work down at the library, why don't we just meet out on the front steps tomorrow?"

Dean shuddered as he tried to use his bound hands up against the floor to push himself upwards. Sam just listen to him, he's not a fucking book van driver, just listen to him...

"Noon sounds great! Pardon? No, no, it's no trouble at all, glad I could help!"

The phone clicked closed.

He turned to the others.

"Noon tomorrow, let's make sure we're ready."

Dean fell back on the floor, dull thuds of pain echoing up and down his spine and around his jaw and face. Ready for what? They couldn't just open fire in the middle of a public library. What did they want? He rolled onto his back in frustration, his hands pulled down and his legs tugged uncomfortably upwards. He realized the bondage alone was meant to torment the wearer.

A shadow fell and the one of the three he had chosen to dislike the most crouched down next to him.

"Did you know," he began. " ... that dehydration is the first sign of the body's decline?"

Dean stared back up at him, his strained muscles going limp when the chain was grabbed again like a handle. It was impossible to use his limbs to strike, he could barely breathe with the rag stuffed too deeply into his mouth.

The tape was carefully removed and the rag pulled free. The plastic tube was clear, dry and clean.

"W-water time huh?" Dean observed weakly.

"It helps if you don't fight it."

Dean kept that in mind.

 

 

 

 

 

Predictably, after having been forced water the third time, Dean began to feel a drowsiness that was unnatural and strong.

He fought his eyes from closing, but he soon learned why they had done it.

It seemed like his hosts were going out. They didn't leave the room often, Dean saw they had some of those old army cots folded up in the corner when they felt like sleeping. There was a tap for when they got thirsty and a door that lead out to somewhere. The front of their store front he guessed. They left nothing behind and they left nothing carelessly on the floor where he might be able to get at it.

Laying on his back, his knees twisted uncomfortably to his side he stared up at the much larger door that was right up behind him. It was almost the width of the wall and it was a pitted dull metal, closed by a heavy duty latch that sat on its side.

If he was right about the place than this thing was probably a meat locker.

His ankles had been freed just once and he was left in a bathroom. He was so dizzy and his muscles were so seized up he had to steady himself with one knee on the toilet just to relieve himself. The man walked in while he was still standing there and staring at the impossibly narrow window that sat up by the ceiling.

They put him back where he had been and his mind spiraled almost pleasantly down and up out of strange dreams. It was hazy and indistinct. He could smell smoke. The sweet heavy scent of cigars and the other more familiar smell of cigarettes. Someone was chain smoking them, one after another. Voices overlapped each other into a meaningless drone of babble that he couldn't follow. Dad would say this was a sign of someone who was nervous, afraid...

Sitting by itself in the center of the metal table, Dean's phone began to ring. He let his head roll in their direction, curious as to whether they'd answer it.

They did.

"Hello Sam." Gone was the friendly demeanor that had been used the day before. "You missed our appointment. Waited almost four hours. It was fairly rude of ya."

Dean listened, resisting the urge to drop off back to the undisturbed and peaceful sleep he had been drifting in and out of for hours? Days? ... He wasn't sure how long. It was tomorrow already? When had they left? He noticed several rifles leaning against the walls with sites on them. Those were new.

"Funny you should ask, he's right here, spending some time with us."

Yes, spending time. Dean nodded to himself, the need to sleep pulling him down again. Pulling him where it wasn't cold and the floor wasn't hard, where his throat didn't feel rough and scraped from being given water against his will.

"We don't want much Sam, we just wanted to meet you that's all." He smiled. "You're not easy to find."

Dean heard himself mumble incoherently behind his gag in agreement.

"Get this," The man smiled to his companions. "He wants to know why he should believe we've got Mr. Dean Winchester."

Dean felt his eyes close. Nice going Sammy. He sighed as he heard footsteps approach him. This should be good.

"Well, Sam, he can't talk right now, but I can prove he's here."

Dean kept his eyes closed.

The red burning end of the cigar pressed slowly and firmly into the delicate flesh of his inner arm. It took a few moments for his fogged brain to make out what was happening. But when it hit, so did his muffled scream. The second time it came down, another pair of hands now holding him down so the procedure would be perfect and not misaligned because of his struggles.

Dean let out another stifled moan when they let the burning hot cigar linger and smolder in his flesh, until they began to grind it, putting out the white hot ember into his skin.

He'd broken out into a sick sweat, finally seeing that his cell phone had been put right next to his face so the receiver on the other end wouldn't miss a thing. It was taken away when Dean finally grew silent except from some pained panting.

"Sound familiar Sam?" he asked. "I can prove it some more if you'd like?"

They let Dean slump back onto the floor, holding up his arms to himself in some semblance of protection. The burns had yanked him right out of his drug induced haze. Everything in the room was hyper bright and crystal clear, his heart tripping wildly in his chest. The room tilted sideways. Blinking, he felt himself start to choke.

"Take off the gag." The man instructed. "He's gonna sick up."

Distracted from the phone, the audibly loud voice on the other end caught his attention.

"Yes, yes, I 'm here, calm down now, son." He said in a tone that was too hard to be mistaken for comfort. "There is a place I'd like you to meet us. Tonight. Yes, your brother will be there. I can assure you that."

Dean spit out the rag just in time to bring up nothing but the dosed bottled water onto the floor, his sore body wracked with dry heaves when nothing else would come.

"That?" The man responded to an unheard question on the phone. "Oh, he's just not feeling very well."

Exhausted and trembling, Dean rolled back onto his side, realizing quite suddenly he had nothing in his mouth. He could talk.

"S-Sam... SAM, SAMMY DON'T LISTEN--" The fist that silenced him stayed, gripped tightly on his chin, and a thumb wiped away the blood that it had started to flow over his swollen upper lip. The drugs still rang through his pale and shivering skin. Dean smiled up at his captor, knowing it was red.

"I'd suggest you keep your cool Sam, and go to the address I've texted to your phone by midnight tonight."

Dean watched the phone’s display go dark as the call ended.

“Get him ready,” he instructed.

Dean struggled as his jaw was pried back open and one of them meticulously rolled up his rag and pushed it back over his tongue before reapplying the tape. Another one was unfolding a square black piece of cloth. A hood. Without ceremony the heavy thick fabric was slipped over Dean’s head, plunging him into a stifling darkness. He shook his head twice, in an effort to free himself of it clinging coyly and horribly to his face.

“We’re going for a ride.”

tbc


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much worse could this possibly get? Follow me... I can show you.

SPN Fic: Removed 3/7  
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.

 

Whatever they had given him, it was doing a hell of a job.

The shiver of cold sweat, limbs heavy and useless, focus impossible. The rough cloth of the hood itched, stifled by the heat of his breath, vertigo made worse by the darkness. The world was spinning madly and he wasn't even moving.

They'd undone the shackles while he trembled on the tiles, too weak to lift his head. He barely felt his arms wrenched up and tied tight behind his back, his feet held together by what sounded and felt like prison grade restraints. He was hoisted over a shoulder and Dean fought to keep down the burning bile threatening the back of his throat.

The sudden rush of night air on the dampness of his exposed wrists and neck was like a drink of cool water. They were in an awkward space, an alley maybe, the man carrying him forced to move with care. He felt the heel of his boot scrape a wall, bang against what sounded like a hollow garbage bin. Hushed, sharp words were exchanged. Suddenly the motion stopped, the shoulder beneath him heaving, and he felt himself being lowered.

"In ya go."

He was dumped ungracefully, head smacking against a metal edge. The hood was tightened and the lid slammed shut. He could hear their voices above him outside, muffled and choppy.

"Enough to quiet a horse. He'll be out. No trouble."

Sounds startled him, distant and up close merging in the darkness like delirium. A dog's bark across the street, the man in the backseat cracking a beer, the thrum of the engine a constant song in his head. Dean tried to count the miles, gauging the speed of the vehicle, felt the acceleration shift, estimated each tick on the dial. Gradually the terrain changed, the motion beneath him shifting from paved cement to gravel and finally to the rollicking gait of uneven dirt. Dad had always said being a passive captive was the same as being a dead one. Although, he knew this trip was not intended to end him. Not immediately at any rate. For once, it was Sammy they wanted dead.

The car stopped and the trunk was opened, the hood and restraints rechecked before they lifted him out and settled him onto unsteady feet. He did not need eyes to know where he had been taken. Beneath his boots came the smell of damp earth, leaves and the unmistakable rot of old hay.

Dean had spent enough time in enough forgotten joints like this in his day to be able to construct the surroundings in his head. An old barn, unused and abandoned. No lowing of cattle or smell of fresh dung. Just decay and rot.

It was far out enough from town to give them their absolute privacy.

Hands touched him, again lifting and carrying, to his muted indignant ire. Dean grunted in frustration as he was handled, bound fists working behind his back. He was taken only a few steps before he heard the groan of an old door, its wood likely soft and falling away on its rusted hinges. The smell of damp hay was overpowering inside the space, dull light from somewhere making him turn his head.

"Get him up there." A voice said, accented by the safety click of a loaded rifle.

He felt rope being worked into his jeans, securing him to the man's body.

"You better hold still." The owner of the massive shoulder warned him. "Most people I do this with are either unconscious or dead. You don't want to be either of those now, do ya?"

If Dean could have responded unkindly, he would have.

They were ascending steadily. Even with his sight obscured, he felt the wave of dizziness as he was hauled quickly up what felt like a ladder. It was quite a feat for the man bearing him, his back heaving from exertion. Counting the shift of each rung to 36, he estimated wherever he would find himself next, would be an alcove within a hiding place.

And however high it was, it would not be a gentle place to fall from.

 

 

 

 

 

The drop down into the old hay was startling, his sight taken and leaving no bearing on just how far away the floor was before he was released.

He didn’t move when the hood was drawn off and tossed aside. The fresh air sweet on his face, his hair damp on his forehead.

This man looked almost identical to his fellow hunters. These three men. They all looked the same. That same innocuous middle age, with worn denims and rolled up flannel sleeves. The threadbare baseball caps and the sleeveless insulated jackets. The type of men you wouldn’t look twice at while you were filling your car at a highway rest stop.

The absence of the hood went swiftly from refreshing to cold, as he shivered and looked around him. He was sprawled in a heap of molding hay in a large empty space, the wooden roof of what he had guessed correctly was a barn sloped from its peak and came down low against the wall where he had been put. The loft was dark but the barn floor below was lit by several gas lanterns. Their flames flickered and wavered up the broad barn walls and glowed up between the uneven wooden planks.

The man seated next to him was the one that spoke the least. He was slightly younger than his counterparts and was the only one without a salt and peppered beard complete with moustache.

Dean watched him take out a knife and start whittling away at a piece of pine he had retrieved out of his back pocket. He also had a duffel where Dean could see bottled water and that damn tube.

The man saw him looking.

“Thirsty?”

Dean hastily shook his head. His throat was raw and burning, scraped and bruised by unyielding plastic.

The tape was peeled back, the rag removed.

Dean worked his jaw and wondered just exactly what he could do to avoid this procedure that he hadn’t already tried yet.

"You’ll need it.” He said as he gave the coiled tubing a stretch.

“It’s dosed.” Dean mumbled needlessly.

“Just need to keep you calm, that’s all.”

Dean shifted his attention to the face of the man leaning over him. Sam and he had used his and the others' personal data to let them move more easily in the world. But if memory served, besides the fact that all of these hunters were supposed to be dead, they appeared to be missing a man. Dark coven or not, something had caught up with these guys.

“I thought there were four of you?” Dean asked, wondering too late if there would be any repercussions for posing the question.

“After a few weeks you won’t fight the tube anymore.” He pulled Dean down flat on his back by hooking a hand under his knee and yanking him down.

Dean blinked.

“After a few months, you’ll drink and eat when we tell you.”

“Sure.” Dean muttered.

Shifting his trapped hands underneath his back, he swallowed nervously at the lack of sternness or threat in the guy’s voice. In fact, the hunter laughed a little as he shook the bottle a few times to mix whatever he’d put in it.

“It’ll take a while, you bet. But by next year, you’ll be right as rain.” He grinned as he made sure the water bottle was attached tightly to the end of the tube. “And then we’ll be four again.”

Despite his past failures of avoiding the process, Dean struggled anyway when thumbs pushed into the sides of his face to painfully unlock his jaw.

“You’re a good find Dean.” He told him as he held his neck down and snaked the tube in at the same time.

Whipping his head from side to side, Dean wheezed around the plastic. The sickening feel of the cold liquid traveling down his throat and hitting his stomach made him gag and twist under the man’s strong hold. He couldn’t breathe, his eyes blinking rapidly and watering as the guy took his time emptying the plastic container.

“As soon as we’re done with your brother,” he said as he tipped the bottle slowly up so it would go down gradually. “We can start training you.”

Dean stared at the bottle only half way depleted, his chest hitching for oxygen. Convulsively, he groaned and brought his boots down hard onto the wooden planks in desperate protest, his vision swimming with the lack of air. His fists worked frantically in their bonds, his back arching weakly in distress before suddenly, the tube was quickly and nauseatingly withdrawn.

Colors swam in his line of vision as he gasped for air, a deep voice below sounding very far away.

"He good?"

"Almost!" The shouted reply came.

"Hurry up! The other one will be here any minute."

Dean was still choking, coughing and spluttering into the foul hay.

"Atta boy!" The man used his own shirt to mop the dampness down Dean's chin and neck. "Just breathe, now. That's it. It'll be done soon."

"Son...son of a..." Dean's eyelids fluttered, chest heaving.

"Knew you'd say that." The man smirked before he forced the rag back in.

Dean closed his suddenly heavy eyes and tried very hard to forget where he was.

And before he knew it, he was asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

He awoke shivering uncontrollably.

They had never given him back a shirt no matter how low the thermometer happened to dip out there but when he opened his eyes, he was grateful they'd left him his jeans and boots, laces missing or no. He struggled to sit, muscles twitching involuntarily from the cold. To his dismay, the hood had been replaced, the kerosene scent of it making his stomach lurch.

"Look alive." The man next to him said.

There were new noises below.

Groggily, Dean sorted out the cluster of voices, heart racing when he heard the sound of his brother.

Fighting the protest of his abused limbs, he sent his booted foot slamming hard against the floor, a growl from underneath the gag was enough that a hand clamped over his mouth over the hood. He kicked again, shifting with all his might to knock his shoulder and handler into the wall behind them. Stifled yells and groans of pain came when the weight of the man dropped down on top of him. Dean snarled, breathing desperately behind the gag. He had to make Sammy hear him.

Words below became more distinct with adrenaline, meeting his ears in muffled snatches. One question, however, was loud and clear.

"Where’s my brother?"

He could see Sam in his mind. Hand hovering at his jeans where he normally kept his gun, muscles tensed and cautious, unwilling to incite violence.

"Give him back. Now." Spoken calmly it was not a request.

"Didn’t come packin' now did ya son?"

Dean knew without seeing that they were searching him, their hands on his brother made his stomach clench a little. The click of Sam's gun hitting the table met his ears. Satisfied that he had no more on his person, the man running the show changed his tone.

"Have a seat."

There was the scrape of a chair against the floor and Sam's question came again, slightly less composed.

"Where IS he?"

Dean struggled briefly, waiting in agony to hear the metallic mechanism of one of those rifles load and discharge and the sound of Sammy’s body hitting the floor. His struggles renewed but were quickly stopped. His handler on top of him simply pressed a broad palm firmly down over the hood, tape and his mouth, the itchy hay under his back turning sharp and needle like as he writhed in it.

"Shhhhhh." He suggested.

There was no way in hell Sam was going to be able to get him out of here. Even if Dean had full use of his arms and legs, they were outgunned by some men that weren't afraid to use them. Dean waited, clenching his fists hard as he heard the exchange below.

"We got a proposal for you."

"I want to see my brother now."

He heard the man spit hard onto the ground before he yelled up.

"Yo!"

"Up." The man next to him ordered, hauling him up painfully by the elbow. Dean sagged slightly, his joints protesting at the sudden, swift movement. The hood was pulled off, the vast space so quickly revealed, and the height suddenly realized, made him sway in a burst of dizziness.

Staggering to right himself at the edge of the rail less loft, he saw Sam down on the barn's first floor. Dean would have waved if he could.

The situation seemed to deserve some kind of greeting.

He watched Sam take a few seconds to look up that high and realize that was where the man had gestured. He stared up at Dean for a moment, his mouth appropriately wide open before he blinked a few times.

“D-Dean?” Sam stammered, far below but close enough to see the bruises all over his face and torso. "Dean!" Sam shouted.

Dean, unable to speak, couldn’t even do a hand signal because they had his wrists cinched tight behind his back. All he could was look back down at him. So he did the only think he could do.

He winked.

Sam’s look of concern shifted to full on confusion.

Dean couldn’t blame him. They had never worked out blinking in morse code or any of that kind of shit. But he wanted him to know he was fine. Better than fine, he was, he…was…

A wave of white soaked his vision and he felt himself stumble— The man behind him caught the back of his jeans as his knee gave out on him, almost sending him right over the loft edge and onto the hard wood floor far below.

Dean shook his head hard and tried to refocus on Sam who appeared to be doing an internal indexing of known drugs that they might have been using and what effects they might have.

Unwillingly, Sam took a deep breath and turned his attention back to his host.

“What exactly do you want?” He asked in a very controlled voice.

“You took our phantom status away and now we’re just ordinary folks.” The man seated himself at the table. “Tough luck for us that you made those folks on the top 50 of the FBI's shoot-on-sight roster.”

Sam pulled out a chair and sat down numbly.

"Just sending you back where you came from." He whispered.

"Think this is funny?" The man roared.

Dean jerked as he watched Sam's face come into contact with a fist. Don't fuck this up, Sammy. Please....

“You get me boy?”

“You want new identities?” Sam was panting slightly in pain, a hand pressed to his bleeding lip.

“Not just a new name kid, we want the full package.”

Sam nervously swallowed. “Full? B-But why?”

“Get out from under the law. Have some fresh new numbers. Maybe get to vote.”

Sam nodded as he ran a hand back through his hair. “You want a safehouse, unrelated individual living tax payers, photos alterations, back up social security numbers, mother’s maiden names, legit birthdates and cities of origin, SAT scores, heh… the works?”

“That would be about right.”

Sam laughed a little, a breathless laugh. “I can’t do it.”

“I thought you might say that.” He gestured behind him with a hand.

Dean felt himself pushed up to the edge of the ledge they were standing on, the grip on his cinched wrists was slick with sweat. Dean’s boots were set half way over the precipice and the hand behind him was ready to give that small tap on the shoulder that would send him reeling into space.

Sam’s chair hit the floor as he stood up.

“Wait! No! No no no, wait!”

The seated man with the rifle considered him.

“Just wait okay? Just wait!” Sam had his arms up and hands out as if he had the power to stop the guy with overt gestures alone.

Dean felt an eye brow raise. But what the fuck did he know, maybe the kid had another one of those unsuspected punches somewhere in there. But Dean had never considered counting on it. Instead he looked down the thirty odd feet of air between him and the floor and wondered what it would feel like hitting it face first.

Probably wouldn’t kill him if he fell right.

Probably just hurt him real real bad.

Dean sighed. They’d revealed what they wanted so there wasn’t a bullet with Sammy’s name on it just quite yet. But this was a fine line. His brother had to play this thing smart or the grim situation could get a whole lot grimmer.

“Just listen,” Sam had resumed his business voice but in a much softer tone. “I can’t do that kind of hack on my terminal, it’s a laptop man, I can hack into most networks, military, even local government… but adding, changing, you have to be practically sitting between their servers to pull that off!”

Dean had zoned out after the word terminal but he got the gist. Sammy had to do some breaking entering elsewhere to accomplish this kind of job. And he could do it too. And these men knew he could. He felt a brief flash of perverse pride that these lunatics went to these lengths just to get his brother to do a hack job for them. But why not save time by hacking into the hacker that screwed you in the first place?

“I’ll need time...” Sam said almost to himself. “I’ll need to drive to Cheyenne, use the city hall terminals, it will take me—“

“24 hours.”

Sam paled.

Drive? Dean perked, wishing his mouth wasn’t packed full with cloth and tape so he could ask where Sam had found the car.

“Pl-please, I’ll need more time—“

“24 hours.” Another fat round cigar was lit. “You liked playing with our names so damn much, I think you’ll have a blast this time.”

Dean could hear Sam's slow release of breath even from where he stood.

“Alright." Sam's voice wavered slightly. "Alright. I'll get you what you want. Exactly what you want, ok? Just d-don't hurt him."

"We won't. Right, boys?"

"We'll treat 'em like our own brother." The man in the loft called down.

Sam’s jaw clenched at the words.

"Listen. I do everything you want as you want, I get him back in one piece."

The man sat forward with the rifle across his lap.

"You got 23 hours and 45 minutes. Best get moving."

Sam was shown the door at the point of a rifle. His eyes searched frantically for Dean, who was being pulled back into the shadows above.

"I'll be back." Was all he said.

Dean knew what Sam was thinking, there'd be a bullet in his older brother’s skull and a body lost in some bog where he'd never find it. But Dean knew where this story was going. If Sam let him slip, he would vanish along with them, a new candidate for their training program. A new hunter in their gang.

Shoved back into the hay again, Dean smiled ruefully to himself.

An indoctrination into their little gang was never going to happen. They'd end up putting a bullet into his head sooner rather than later when they figured out they had snared something that wasn't willing to be taught.

"I'll be back Dean!" Sam yelled loudly in promise before they closed the doors on him.

His hidden smile faded when he thought of the ease the guy had said he'd eventually stop fighting. Dean rolled onto his side in an effort to conserve some of his body heat. His handler was digging in the duffel again, this time pulling out a bottle that looked like it was filled with something pureed and sickly beige.

“You must be hungry.” He said idly as he began to connect it to a different and much larger tube.

Dean felt his heart start to beat faster as he watched the barely viscous fluid begin to fill the hose. He sighed and pulled his knees up closer to his chest.

How much worse could this possibly get?

tbc


	4. part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.

He woke up slowly.

A weird kind of mechanical sound whispered all around him, tiny bright explosions he could almost feel behind his eyelids.

click-whirrrrrrrrr

click-whirrrrrrrrr

click-whirrrrrrrrr

First he felt the cold tile under his cheek. The dull rattle of chains as he automatically tried to reach up to rub at his eyes. His shoulder ached from being pressed down on the hard floor, his thighs and knees cramped from being in the same position over night. His throat burned. His tongue was dry. He worked his jaw and swallowed realizing that the gag was gone.

Opening his eyes he saw two of the three men were seated around the lone and only table in the center of the room. They were the older of the trio, grizzled gray with bodies as solid as any college football player.

click

A brilliant flash of light ignited the room and he reflexively tried to shield his eyes with his bound hands. Confused he slowly lowered them, his sight filled with bright spots zig zagging in molten lines across his vision.

whirrrrrrrr

It was a camera.

"W-what the--?" His throat was thick with disuse, words slurred and strange to him.

"He's awake."

"Slept long enough."

The table was cluttered. Styrofoam boxes lay open with steaming food. A red and gold carton had tipped over leaving a messy pile of rice on the floor several feet from his face.

Dean swallowed again, the sight and scent of food causing his stomach to go into knots. He was in between some stage of hungry and sick, the need and the revulsion almost equal in his gut. His head was pounding from lack of water. He had fought hard the last time they had tried to give him the tube by jerking his head around so much they had to pull the thing out before it choked him to death. What they had managed to get into him didn't last long and had ended up in a pool on the floor.

If he got sick they usually just tried it again but they hadn't that last time. He was vaguely surprised how much worse he felt without it. It felt almost like a hangover, his body’s absence of good old fashioned fluids making him feel ragged and even more run down than the drugs did.

The camera clicked and whirred again, leaving his vision a sheet of chaotic white.

"Take him out front." Came an order from the dinner table.

It was the youngest of them that held the camera. A youth that was pushing his late forties easily. He stood tall and pocketed the digital camera as he complied. He got down on one knee beside Dean and gave him a small smile as he held up a key.

"No funny stuff okay?"

Dean had nothing funny planned so he just nodded in some kind of agreement.

The metal sprung away from his ankles, his sore flesh burning from their constant presence. The chain rattled through the loop and out between his wrists which remained safely locked.

"Come on now." He slipped a thick arm under Dean's elbow and eased him to a sitting position.

His legs felt numb and useless, slipping out from under him when the man attempted to get him to stand. When he finally managed to keep on his feet, his muscles trembled, the effort to support his weight hurting up and down his frame. The man nudged him forward.

Walk? This guy wanted him to walk? Okay. Dean took two faltering steps forward and almost landed back on the floor if not for the strong arm helping him stay upright.

"You just need to stretch them out a little bit." The man assured him as he lead them past the table and towards the one and only door.

Dean wanted to ask for water but he decided it wasn't worth it. That fucking tube would be coming sooner or later. His biological needs had been set to some clockwork that didn't jive with his own needs. When he didn't want food, it was pumped into his stomach. When he lay all night thinking about one sip of water they left him alone to his own suffering.

“Wha-what’s with the camera?”

His handler almost looked a little embarrassed.

“I like to archive the process Dean.” He explained. “One day you’ll look at them and you’ll laugh. I promise.”

The only door lead out to the front of what looked like used to be a meat market. The glass cases dark and empty, the broad front windows covered with brown paper, taped up in patches. Small jagged pieces of sun leaked in making beams of light filter through the dusty air.

Dean stopped short when his eyes caught something in the meager light. A large section of the floor was covered in a dark brown rusty stain, pieces of cardboard tossed over it and soaked through. It smelled old, like rotted meat.

"Taking your work home with you?" Dean asked as he was gently pushed forward again.

"Sometimes." The man sighed.

Their destination was the bathroom and as usual, the man stood standing there while Dean relieved himself of the water they gave him every three hours on the hour. He was about to zip his jeans back up when he noticed the new contraption set up along the wall that he hadn't noticed when they had walked in. It reminded him of when their father would get creative outside of conventional plumbing. If you didn't have running water in your cabin you made do with what you could. Seemed like these guys had done the same.

"Give me your clothes."

The man twisted on the sink's taps and the hose bracketed to the wall jerked, the nozzle hissing to life with flowing water.

Slowly kicking off his boots, Dean stepped out of his jeans and handed them over.

Solving the problem of having no bathing facilities in their den, they had rigged a hose up from the bathroom sink to pour downwards in the semblance of a shower. The tiled room had a central drain in its floor. It was almost luxurious.

Hygiene aside, Dean was much more interested in the water that was coming freely and not out of any goddamn tube. He stood under it, mouth open to the lukewarm rusty taste of unfiltered ground water. It tasted better than any icy cold bottled shit from a Nordic glacier could have ever hoped to be.

"Here."

Dean turned back to his handler who was seated on a folding chair and turned away at an angle out of some respect for Dean's modesty. The man tossed him something without looking in his direction. A bar of soap.

Tonight was the night they’d agreed to meet with Sam again. The hunters had been tracking Sam’s work along side him on their own networked bank of laptops. All night Dean had been roused from his stupor on the floor by their small sounds of victory when another piece of an identity’s puzzle was fixed neatly into place. Complete proof that Sam was indeed fulfilling his side of the bargain with a speed that had impressed them all.

But Dean knew what would be waiting at that old barn when Sam came back. He knew Sam did too but the stupid kid would go anyway because he’d think Dean was there. There wouldn’t be any Dean and there wouldn’t be any ticker tape parade for his efforts either. All that waited for Sam was a loaded rifle and a fresh dug hole somewhere out in the woods out back.

He had to stop them from leaving, he had to do something. Anything. He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw aching from his entire body’s tension.

Dean stuck his head back under the barely warm water and numbly rubbed the soap on his arms and chest, wondering just how closely his body would listen to him if he choose to make a move now. His hands were still bound but he had his legs free.

He sighed.

It was an effort just standing upright under the makeshift shower. He was in no condition to go up against this well rested, well fed, giant of a man. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he worked the soap lather enough to move it through his hair. Soap had frequently doubled as shampoo as he grew up and he'd never quite fallen out of the habit of using it that way. He put the soap on the small metal shelf they had rigged under the hose. In the nature of the makeshift, it was shoddily made and half hanging off the wall. The weight of the soap alone made it sag even more.

But that was when Dean saw it.

A loose screw.

It almost fell out into his hand.

"Met your dad once."

Dean froze, his hand hovering under the small metal shelf.

"Hell, I might even have met you too." His chest hitched in a small laugh. "Everyone thought he'd lost his mind, dragging kids around with him like that."

Dean turned, pretending to work the suds down one arm as he snapped the small piece of loose metal and then quickly wiped his hand across his mouth. He had it. Tucked into the bottom of his cheek digging sharp into his gums.

"I liked him tho." He added. "Somethin’ about him."

Dean listened to him as he rubbed his face with water. There was a shakiness he couldn't seem to lose, a mild elation and horrible lightheadedness that never went away. Whatever they were dosing him with had a long lifespan and they were keeping him on it steady.

"Knew where you stood with a fella like that." He said almost nostalgically down at the wet tile floor. He let out a deep breath and stood, his eyes still averted slightly to the right so as to respect the captive's privacy. "You about done?"

Careful with his new tool, Dean gulped down a few more mouth fulls of water before stepping out from under the sputtering hose. The hissing water stopped and his handler tossed him a towel.

There were clothes neatly folded and left on the chair. A pair of worn and faded green and gray fatigues, some boxers still in their plastic wrapping and an army green t-shirt.

"Those aren't mine." Dean said, the cool air of the room finally feeling cold and making him shiver where he stood. The towel against his face was stiff and smelled like bleach.

"They're yours now." He smiled.

Dean’s jeans were gone and unless he wanted to go back out there in nothing but his boots he had no choice but to obey. His face flushed in his anger at being lead into complying. Leaving him no choices but theirs. Is this how they did it? Just made sure you had no free will of your own until you stopped trying all together. The handcuffs were removed.

Dean stared down at his freed hands and met the man opposite him square in the eye.

"Just go ahead and put them on like a good kid." The gaze was kind but hard. This hunter was prepared for any bullshit Dean might pull. And if he did, this man already knew who would come out on top. "Shirt first."

Dean reluctantly picked up the T-shirt and slipped it over his head. It fit perfectly.

"Tomorrow we'll talk about shaving." The man told him. "Electric razor of course."

The cuffs were reattached, their weight making Dean clench his teeth. He next pulled on the warmth of the boxers and fatigues and felt his jaw twitch in his effort not to say anything. The small piece of metal stayed painfully in place, his tongue pushing down as far as it possibly go.

"You're quiet." The tone of his voice changed. "Don't got such a smart mouth now?"

"Sorry." Dean mumbled downwards as he fastened the trousers top button and sat down to awkwardly pull on his boots with bound hands.

His chin was caught in a large hand forcing him to look up.

The man studied him curiously, his suspicions sparked by the slightest change in the environment and everything that moved in it. Dean's smart mouth was something he had obviously grown accustomed to when the gag was not in place.

Still shivering from the water, Dean stood, his chin just about reaching the larger man's shoulder. The man was looking down at him. Looking at him real close.

Shit.

Thinking fast, Dean jerked forward in a feigned harsh cough, bringing his hands up to his mouth. In one motion he'd moved the metal piece to the palm of his hand. Actual pain swiftly replaced his act and almost doubled him over, a very real cough taking control and ravaging his raw throat.

When he finally stopped, a thumb slipped between his lips and pulled his jaw down. Dean resisted the strong urge to bite down on the fingers that ran back over and under his teeth. His chest heaved in simmering rage as he was inspected, a hand even running carefully through his damp hair and along the backs of his ears.

Some of the man's smile came back but not all of it.

"You're doing real good Dean." He said softly. "Don't you go now and mess it all up."

"No, sir."

Dean's anger doubled when he realized he'd used the word without even thinking about it.

This was all a lot easier with the gag.

 

 

 

 

Two of them were gone.

They were out the door by 10PM. Right on the dot of their careful schedule to meet Sam at the appointed place and finish their business with him. They had left behind the youngest again. He was the only one that ever bothered to really speak to their new charge, the one that usually administrated most of his feedings and the only one Dean wasn’t completely unsure he could take in a fight.

Dean silently thanked the hypnotic and distracting power of football.

A small TV on a rusted oil drum and the boredom of his babysitter were on his side. His body, however, was not.

The drugs, he had long since realized, were insurance. Through one way or another they knew just about everything Dean was capable of and they weren’t taking any chances. The caution exercised was almost flattering. Fortunately, stealth on blunted senses was a pleasure he had experience in. Several slow deep breaths curbed the shakes, summoning enough focus to bring his hands covertly to his mouth. He spat the rusted screw into his palm, tasting rust and grit on his bottom lip.

Deftly, he began to work on the large locks securing his ankles, gritting his teeth when the tiny piece of metal fell from his shaking hands, clattering softly against the tiles.

"Nonono..." He breathed, bending to feel for it, relieved when he snatched it back up in his sweaty palm. He leaned over, fighting for focus, straining carefully against his restraints to try the lock once more.

A job like this, with what he had, took time, patience and focus. It was not impossible, just tedious. Time played with him, vision going in and out, muscles trembling from exertion. A slight twitch, a sharp twist and finally the blessed click.

Dean tried very hard not to make noise. Breathing deeply, he regained himself, waited until his heart slowed before maneuvering out of the leg restraints. One lock, then the other and his ankles were free.

The man in the chair was locked on the television.

It took him a few seconds to keep balance, reacquaint himself with his own body again. The drugs weighing his movement and clouding his judgment were cut by adrenaline, the sudden euphoria of freedom. Cautiously he glanced to the side, ready to bring his bound fists into play.

The man hadn't moved. Dean tensed, listening closely. An explosive snore broke through the white noise from the TV set.

He was asleep.

Providence.

Dean could have wept but he didn’t really have the time.

He had a car to jack.

 

 

 

 

It was easy to find the one and only two lane interstate that lead anywhere at all out of town. Dean idled in the stolen pick up at the red light, his choice of north or south making or breaking the whole entire situation.

He shut his eyes, remembering the ride the first time he’d taken it, blind and restrained. The rain had fallen unevenly and in muted thudding drops over the trunk hood as they went. As if the water was set loose by gusts of wind through the trees they passed under.

Looking south he saw nothing but open grazing fields and stacked stone walls. Turning north he saw the asphalt lined on either side with the drape of ancient and budding oaks, almost a canopy over the roadway, the branches reaching the other large trees on the other side.

Dean shifted into gear and started up the northern route on instinct alone.

If he was right, there’d be a turn off in about 12 miles and at the end of that, there’d be a party to crash.

 

 

 

 

 

He knew he was in trouble when he couldn’t manage to keep the pickup off the center yellow lines.

The radio was stuck on some half way hiss of bluegrass and a news station drone of transmission frayed voices. The volume didn't work at all, the tuner knob was missing completely. The interior smelled like stale tobacco and wet dog. There was a half empty Budweiser can in the plastic cracked drink holder.

Checking to see if it wasn’t just there for spitting chew into, Dean downed it, flat and warm, the slightest touch of the alcohol sharpening in through the drugs, and parting the hazy curtains just enough that he could keep on one side of the road.

Briefly, he wondered what it would feel like to keep driving and putting as many miles as he could between him and these men. That goddamn hard floor, those heavy shackles and the feel of the tube down his throat. He gripped the steering wheel hard and he eased his foot back down hard on the gas. Going to confront two of them on his own carried an uneasiness that he wasn’t used to experiencing. He realized it was some variation or form of fear. Dean frowned, crushing the empty can in his fist and pitching it out the rolled down window.

Fear did nothing but piss him off.

A light rain had started falling, dotting the dusty windshield and coming in through the window, cool and fresh on his forearm. He cut the headlights when he made the turn off, the unpaved road familiar in its bumps and water filled pot holes. When he knew for a fact that he hadn’t even made it half way to the barn he drove the truck into the cover of the woods and slipped out into the damp rainy night.

 

 

 

 

 

The barn was dark, no gas lamps lit, none of the stark electrics that hung in decades old ceramic fixtures were burning.

The rain had gotten a little heavier. That suited Dean fine, the sound of it through the leaves covered the sound of his passage through the undergrowth. He paused and took a good look 360 degrees around him. Unfortunately, the game played both ways, his hearing was impaired too. Made even worse by the phantom sounds he was hearing, the drugs rushing and whooshing with the wind when it struck overhead through the trees. Taking deep breaths, he steadied himself on the rough wet trunk of a tree as he crouched down low to the muddy ground.

The Impala wasn’t here.

But that wasn’t all there was too it. Dean had slowly realized as he made a careful search of the barn’s perimeter that the car wasn’t hidden down the dirt lane, or parked off the main road so no one would know it had arrived.

Sam had known very well that his brother wouldn’t be here waiting for him when he returned. So Sam had performed another no show for the benefit of his blackmailers. But he had done all the work they had asked for and if they couldn’t silence him with a round of bullets, the only matter left was Dean.

The sudden realization that he was completely and utterly fucked hit him like a blow. He let his forehead knock in frustration against the damp tree, cursing softly.

He was worse than stupid. He was unprepared, off his game and in the open.

Best be getting gone.

He turned around and was suddenly facing off with two chests.

Turned out he was making more noise than he thought he was. Or sleeping beauty back at base woke up long enough to let his friends here know that the lock down hadn’t quite worked. He almost wanted to tell them that it had all come down to one tiny rusty screw but by the looks on their faces he didn’t think they were in the mood.

Whenever Dean faced his doom, all he could think to do was grin.

"Uh, hi?" He said dumbly.

He was off and running before the first fist could even come down.

Dean cursed the drugs, cursed the rain, and above all his own stupidity as he bounded across what used to be a cow field. The wet ground was slippery, causing him to skid in the mud while he tried to stay ahead of two enraged men built like brick walls and both wearing brass knuckles. Reaching out, he snagged a fallen tree branch, wood soft and wet but solid. He swung at one of them, nearly falling backwards when the man simply made a grab for it. He tried again, managing to drive the jagged splinter of wood deep into the shoulder of the enraged man.

He was briefly glad to see blood spurt in flecks from the wound but he didn’t have time to gloat before he had to hit the deck to avoid being decapitated by his own ploy. Throwing himself face down into the muddy grass, he received only half the force of the blow from the elbow that sank into his shoulder.

The man was nice enough to take some time to grind it in his ligaments and bone.

J-Jesus--

He was done for, he knew. But there was no way he would admit it. Even when his own blood flooded his mouth from the steady flow of strikes to his face. Even if there was mud slick in his eyes, he swung out at them, kicked, cursed, and even managed to get a hard bite to what might have been a leg. But the fists were solid and relentless, one after the other like an avalanche, crushing bone and reducing his vision to nothing but white.

Dean was hopeful when it finally stopped.

He could barely feel them holding him up, or hear the shouting merged with the sick high buzz in his head. Every noise, small or great, had become scattered in confusing fragments. The rain, the flashes of lightening and dull thunder, the thrashing trees, the jingle of metal keys.

He did not know why they stopped, vaguely aware he had been dropped and dragged by the ankle back across the wet, muddy field, clothes catching on jagged stone. He felt his head come into forceful contact with the rim of the trunk, handled as though he were baggage. Disobedient baggage.

Let them do what they wanted. Drug him. Beat him. Hell, even kill him. Sam was safe. He breathed that through the blood welling in his swollen mouth.

“Y-You fuckers didn’t… didn’t get him.” He wheezed in a half smile.

Plastic cord was looped and cinched too tightly around his wrists, it hissed and zipped his knees together, his boot ankles locked together so tightly that his feet immediately went numb.

It was about then that Dean started laughing.

Even when the trunk lid came down, he couldn’t stop, and he was almost positive his keepers could hear it from the front seat how matter how deafening the weather had started to become.

Tethered painfully and soaking wet, Dean soon quieted. But his tired smile stayed. Every good hunter had several safe houses in and around the places they moved.

And maybe Sammy’s no show had been for a reason.

Maybe his younger brother was getting closer to just where exactly they might be hiding Dean in the dark.

And if he tried, maybe Dean could be patient.

tbc


	5. part 5

SPN Fic: Removed 5/7  
Title: Removed part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - (Completed)  
( & continued in sequel Indoctrination)  
Author: Mink & Jink  
Rating: R for Violence! - hurt!Dean - abducted!Dean - Gen  
Spoilers: General to all aired ep in USA  
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.

 

Things were so beyond bad when the car slowed to a halt that Dean had no doubt in his mind they were going to soon get unthinkable.

It was an interesting concept. The unthinkable. His thoughts wandered to the war so many of these hunters had been in, including his own father. When Dad had had a few he’d sometimes tell Dean some things no kid ought to have ever thought about before. But even then, when he was just a boy, he knew thinking about them and experiencing them were two completely different things.

No one liked being crossed but these guys had taken it to a whole new level that Dean couldn’t get in deep enough to really quite understand. All he knew was his job and who he had to make sure to keep alive. Sometimes that included himself.

Maybe getting in so deep that you couldn't think anymore was the wiser way to go about this life. It left no more room for everything else that tended to hole you up, slow you down, and pull the wool down over your eyes.

It was what they wanted. These men had gone so deep that didn’t know what to do with the surface anymore. For some reason they had deemed him acceptable and even chosen him to enter their self imposed ranks. He wasn’t a huge fan on how they bred loyalty but he found them remarkable nonetheless. They were so removed from the world’s set of laws, they had even detached themselves from the varied rules that long ago had been erected for those that walked the dark.

After you broke those, what exactly was there left but one man’s voice and will?

The trunk opened to the wet night sky.

Back with the bad guys. Or was it bad with the good guys? Whatever it was, it was unpleasant to dwell on for long. He’d be living it soon enough. The store front with its covered blank windows looked almost like home. A knife went through the plastic between his ankles and knees, and several hands hauled him up and forward, pushing him quickly towards the doors.

"He's probably still in town." There was an edge of worry on the voice. "I say we get out of here before the sun hits the sky."

"What are you so worried for, those IDs are locked in, you saw what he did, even if he wanted to change them again Sam couldn't--"

"I just want to get out of here, you got me?" A large ring of keys was searched briefly until the right one was found and slipped into the store door. "Jesus, do you even remember his father?"

Inside was musty and dank. The rain seeping in like the walls were made of thick paper, creasing and sagging were they stood. They let themselves into the back room and a combat boot shoved between Dean’s moving ankles, landed him hard on his spot on the floor.

Instead of removing the tight plastic cinch on his hands they just replaced the heavy steel shackles on over them. More than impatient with him now, the man yanked the chain through hard, reattaching it to the binds across his ankles with even less slack than he had had before. Dean’s face throbbed, his jaw ached on the tile. Halfheartedly, he tested his binds and found them like he had for the past few days. Inescapable. He felt his numb hands start to shake a little.

The youngest member of their team was there. Head bowed. The television off.

Dean listened as the two elder of the group reprimanded him for a great long while. Loss of privileges. Loss of duties. Loss of trust. Loss of whatever status he may have worked to achieve amongst the three. Their tone was half way stuck between sounding like a concerned father and a pissed of drill instructor that didn’t care if you lived or died just as long as you did it by the code. Dean attempted to feel a little sorry for him but failed.

Instead, he rolled his head away from them, his cheek sticking momentarily to the floor with his drying blood.

The conversation eventually turned back to his presence.

"I don't even know if keepin' this one is such a good idea." One man mumbled to the sound of a magazine being filled, the bullets rolling like marbles on the metal table. "He's weird. Like his old man."

Dean felt one side of his swollen mouth tug up in a smile.

"We need a new truck." He was saying. "I know a guy next town over, we'll pick it up tonight and just head over up north for a while."

"New truck?"

"Sam Winchester knows what the thing we got looks like, I don't wanna be thinkin’ about that every time I pass a city limit."

“He won’t try to follow, not after we call in an eye witness account of him, the feds want a piece of that more than they want us---“

“We got his blood you fucking idiot.” Was the low and shaking response, his words slow and precise. “That’s his goddamn brother.”

It was fascinating to listen to these men discuss his younger brother here in the dim lamp light with hushed voices. Voices filled with traces of barely concealed fear. Sam had gone and broke all the unwritten rules. Light and dark. He’d disobeyed every order given and didn’t even show up to play when there was a promise of blood being spilt. No, Sam had gone and was running their game all his own way. Just like he did everything. These hunters weren’t expecting it and they sure as hell weren’t liking it.

Dean thought of every fight Sam and their father ever had and felt his chest hitch in a small soft laugh. Dad would have hated to have loved to hear all about this one.

The other man shifted in place before he sank down into a seat. “You said Sam would be dead by now,” He said tensely. “You said that we wouldn’t have to worry.”

“Well, Sam’s not dead is he?” The magazine slid home into a semiautomatic weapon. “So I suggest you start worrying.”

The other one stood up with a syringe.

Dean didn’t watch as he slid it into the flesh of his arm and then swabbed the spot with alcohol. More drugs. More insurance. Now with Sammy on the hunt they had to be extra special careful didn’t they? His eyes fluttered as whatever it was coursed through his bloodstream. He felt heavy. He felt light. His thoughts started to weave in and out of one another.

He flexed his numb bloodless hands, a song unwinding lazily in the back of his mind, turning into a hum, low and off tune. Maybe he and these guys weren’t that different after all. When he got scared he got mightily annoyed too.

But they weren't all scared.

Not the youngest one.

He was the opposite of scared.

He hadn’t stopped staring at Dean since they had arrived.

And he was fucking furious.

 

 

 

 

 

It was the first time Dean was sorry to see the older of the two hunters leave.

Usually it meant nothing more than some somewhat gentler handling by their younger cohort and all in all, generally being left alone unless it was goddamn tube time. But not this time. This time the hunter he considered the softest had turned out to be the one he should have been worrying about all along.

Dean listened to the steady pace of footsteps back and forth the width of the room. He waited for them to stop and halt over him. He didn’t have to wait long.

"Hi Dean."

The guy’s eyes were dilated to black, his rage kept in check right under his surface. There was something terrible trembling under each movement and every step, every word. The man sat against the wall, head lowered on his chest, face hidden by his cap.

"Hi." Was all Dean could say.

"They got you pretty good?" He asked conversationally.

"Uh-huh."

"Betcha had a good time out there."

"Actually--"

Dean didn't have much to say when his face suddenly exploded in a violent burst of pain. His head smacked the floor hard where he fell, gasping for air. He slowly opened and closed his mouth almost certain his jaw had been broken, but it hadn’t. Once again, Dean thanked whoever or whatever it was that had granted him such a hard head. He shook his head sharply to clear his vision, vaguely noting that the restraints on his ankles were being unlocked and tossed noisily aside.

"Get up." The man bent down and dragged him to his feet.

"I-If you insist." Dean panted, smiling through the blood. A fist landed in his stomach so hard that he curled in on himself, making small pained noises.

"Can ya breathe?" He asked from above him.

Dean choked, gasped and found, to his surprise, that he could.

"Yeah." He wheezed.

"Damn." A knee came up this time.

Dean doubled in on himself convulsively, choking, the contents of his stomach rising to the back of his throat.

"How about now?"

Quickly, Dean leaned over to the side to keep from enraging the guy further by yakking on his boots. He groaned as he was lifted by the shoulders and slammed against a wall. The man was so close spittle flying into his face.

"I told you not to mess it up Dean." He gripped the shoulders of Dean’s muddy army green T-shirt. “I told you not to mess it up.”

Dean felt the swell of his muted anger starting to peak, he was beyond caring what this man or any of them could do to him anymore. He felt his trapped fists flex and unflex.

“And now…” he brought his captive's face close enough so his hot breath was in Dean’s ear. “…Now you've messed it up for me too.”

That was it. Without thinking to hard about it, Dean’s bound hands came up and shoved him backwards. With another swift motion upwards, he caught the steel edge of his shackles up under the guy’s chin. The man didn’t lose his grip but he stumbled back in enough surprised pain that it brought a real grin to Dean’s face. Dean messed him up huh? Served the bastard right for falling asleep on the watch. His Dad would have woken him up with a nice hot cup of coffee to the face or worse.

“What can I say man,” Dean shrugged. “Did your team at least make the spread?”

He saw stars before he even saw the fist coming.

 

 

 

 

Dean listened to himself breathe slowly in and out.

He lay in the pile of glass, fine splinters singing in his palms, cutting into his cheek. Amid the chaos, his head was strangely clear. They had mutually paused, both collapsed in opposite sides in the disaster of the room.

"Wanna cigarette?" The hunter was breathing like a bellows. Blood from the cuts in his lip oozing down his chin.

"Nah."

"Didn't wanna do this, Dean." The man was against the wall, shoulders heaving. "Why'd ya hafta fuck everything up? You were doing so good.”

“So I heard.”

It was like laying on his back in the ocean, listening to his heart thud in his ears and his lungs expand and sluggishly contract.

"Do you know my name?"

Dean had to admit, head reeling, barely feeling floor beneath him, that these details had never occurred to him. He turned his face to the side and spat red next to his shoulder. God, his throat burned like it had been scraped with iron wool. From where he sat, the man crawled over with an outstretched hand. Fingers wrenched in Dean’s hair making his teeth to clench, forcing his neck up and at attention.

"You're gonna die." The man said with regret. "So I think you oughta know who's gonna do it."

Dean's groan came out a laugh before he could stop it, a pained, uncontrolled chuckle. To his numbed surprise, he heard the man laugh too, his shoulders shaking slightly as he released him.

"Heh. Yeah, kinda funny isn't it?"

“Hilarious.’ Dean agreed.

He picked Dean up and threw him against the wall, shattering the last remaining glass meat case. Face and arms cut, blood warm and running down his skin, soaking his clothes and hair. Dean lay among the shards and laughed.

"What the fuck's so funny now, asshole?"

The laugh came out more like a gasp.

"Y-your hat." Dean weakly raised a bloody finger. The threadbare baseball hat had fallen off onto the floor.

The hunter’s hands went self consciously up to his head which was completely bald but for a very badly grown out comb over. Dean lost it, bound hands shaking on his chest as he rolled to his side trying to keep his pained laughter in, as unstoppable as it was.

That was when the big guy picked up the TV.

That shut Dean up pretty quick.

Automatically, he tossed and held his arms over his head, hearing the crack of bone as the television shattered down on top of him. His left arm was suddenly limp and useless, blood seeping through the sleeve of his T-shirt.

The pain tightened his voice to a hiss.

"Son of a bitch!"

He heard the man lumber through the wreckage and heard something clank loudly, the release of suction and the sound of a door scraping across the floor. It was the meat locker door he’d been staring up at all week.

“N-No--” Dean breathed when he was grabbed up under his arms and dragged backwards. The weight of the shackles on his left arm made him groan nice and loud through his teeth, his good arm trying to support it in some way.

The smell in the locker was rank. Raw and damp musty, not from dust and debris but from red flesh and skin. Locked up and stale he breathed it in gulps as he fought back the nausea the pain in his shoulder was giving him. Dean looked up when they paused, the ceiling lined with chain and massive hooks left for hanging sides of beef on. With one swift motion, he was lifted, his shackles catching on the curved hook just above his head.

Dean cried out as the weight fell on his shattered arm, the toes of his boots touching but just barely grazing against the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting not to yell out again, the drugs pumping through his system making him as light headed as the agony that radiated up and down his left side.

“Oh-Oh God—“ he moaned when he started to feel all the links to his pain start to snap away. One by one by one, leaving him fighting to remain conscious at his very core.

The rag was pushed tightly between his teeth, left there with no tape to mesh it in place. He felt the black cloth being tugged back down over his head, his face and hair matted with sweat and blood. It was smothering, taking away all the dank air he had left. He shook his head back and forth wildly to get it off, the scent of it mixing with the heavy musk of dead flesh and bone.

Just as the knot was tied tight around his throat….

Dean passed out.

 

 

 

 

 

Couldn’t see.

Could hear a little.

It was the door that roused him.

It scraped open bringing with it a gush of fresh air he could feel against his body but could not breathe in. His hands tingled with pin and needles as if they were on fire. His left arm seemed to be gone. Missing from the anatomy of his body. At least it seemed that way until he made the stupid mistake of trying to twist it.

There was a voice. The man was talking again.

The agony of even being moved on the hook made him whimper in the back of this throat. He heard himself trying to say no, and please and didn’t care how pathetic it was. Strong arms encircled his waist and lifted him, letting the length of the cuffs slip off the hook's barb. Dean crumpled to his knees, knowing that the guy was ready to finish this now.

He could heard noises, the rush of the drugs still getting in the way of his reality and what was right there hidden by the black hood. He couldn't control his breathing, but he felt the man coming close to him again. He did the only thing he knew how to do. He fought back.

With a yell, he threw himself backwards and flung out his legs.

There was a satisfying crashing sound and he knew he'd floored him. Rolling back on his damaged arm, he struggled to remain lucid enough to get on top of the body he knew was beside him. He straddled it, using the heavy metal bar that connected his wrists together to press as hard as he was capable down across the man's neck.

Hands were pushing him back, gasping sounds and words fleeting like someone cycling too fast through radio stations. Hands gripped painfully into his forearms and firmly shoved him backwards.

With the one hard push, he landed hard on his back, his shoulder and arm exploding in an agony he didn't think was possible. He heard the man stand.

This was it. This was all she wrote.

What did the hunter have now?

A cinder block to crush his skull?

A loaded gun to slide under the hood?

Maybe just a few well placed sharp kicks to his chest.

Dean tried to roll over, tried to back away, but any movement made him freeze, crying out and biting down hard on the gag wedged firmly between his teeth. He couldn't move. He couldn't catch his breath. He was done.

A hand yanked at the knot under his chin of the hood.

A face to face end huh?

Dean could live and die with that. Better than waiting here in the dark for something to happen. Now he could watch the knife sink in, he could see the bullet in the chamber, he could--

The hood came free, air immediately cooling his sweat glazed face, blood stinging his eyes and running freely from his nose.

"Jesus Christ." Came a soft disbelieving voice.

Dean blinked rapidly, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light of the locker.

"S-Sam?"

 

tbc

part 6


	6. part 6

SPN Fic: Removed 6/7  
Title: Removed part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - (Completed)  
( & continued in sequel Indoctrination)  
Author: Mink & Jink  
Rating: R for Violence! - hurt!Dean - abducted!Dean - Gen  
Spoilers: General to all aired ep in USA  
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.

 

He leaned into his brother's shoulder and breathed, his bound hands gripping what he could reach of Sam's shirt.

"Dean, jeez y-your hands."

His hands were carefully lifted and inspected.

Dean knew they were filled with slivers of glass, the circulation cut off long ago by the plastic cords. He’d worry about all of that at a later date. Right at this moment, he was perfectly fine laying half awake against the warm collar of Sam’s jacket. It wasn't a place he found himself very often but now with strength and focus rapidly ebbing, he was silently grateful that Sam's body took all his weight like a wall.

"You should-should take the rest of the tour." Dean murmured, semi aware that he might not be making any sense. All that mattered was that Hell stopped here. They could go, they could get into the car and leave right now—

Footsteps.

Dean looked up from where he leaned on Sam's shoulder and saw the man who had demolished half the building and a television set using him as the wrecking ball. He quickly glanced down at the large hands for any sign of a gun, or the body language one used when they were carrying a concealed weapon on their person. He was vaguely aware of Sam's body tensing, saw his jaw clench. He needed no warning. Sam was already looking solidly in his direction.

The hunter seemed to be unarmed, his expression cloudy and somewhat confused. His bruised mouth quirked in a strange smile, his hand leaving a rusty dark smear of a hand print down his white T-shirt. It was already speckled with blood--mostly Dean’s. To Dean’s dismay, while his keeper didn’t have a pistol in his hand, he did have a plastic tube and a bottle of water.

He felt himself half smile. Seemed like kicking his ass into next month had cut into the water time schedule.

Dean closed his eyes and knew Sam was wondering what the objects were for and why they had been brought here to this room. And, as Sam usually was, he was fairly swift and exact about his conclusions. He felt Sam’s grip on him tighten as his mind combined the small and seemingly benign objects into what they were meant for. Dean's breathing quickened slightly when he realized what Sam was imagining.

One of Sam's hands slid away from under Dean’s shoulder and gingerly touched the arched path of his throat. Dean made a small involuntary sound of pain but didn’t jerk away like he wanted to. It was easier this way, easier to explain the madness like this instead of days from now with awkward questions and the pain all but faded away.

“Dean?” Sam’s chest was heaving, the hand that caused him hurt in its exploration holding his face again, mindful of the spectacular bruises that were just now coming into their vivid colors. Purples, blues, reds.

“Kept him watered and fed.” The man assured him almost proudly.

When Sam spoke again, Dean barely recognized his voice.

“You’ll wanna stop right there.”

It was that low terrible tone Dean only remembered Sam falling into with their father during their grandest altercations. Come to think of it, it was a tone father and son both shared whether they knew it or not. It was used when furniture broke and windows shattered. It was the voice Sam used the one and only time Dean saw his brother take a swing at their old man. That was the voice he used to say goodbye the very next day, stepping up and vanishing on a bus headed for the west coast.

It was a voice that Dean knew meant disaster.

Sam was crouched down on the floor with him but that didn't do much to hide his brother's size. Dean knew, better than anyone, that size didn't necessarily mean jack shit. But it meant a whole lot when you were so fine tuned into what your body could achieve, easily, each strike and punch like after thoughts following after thoughts that the slightest advantage with your equal meant more than any loaded gun.

Sam carefully took Dean away from his shoulder and settled him back down on the floor. He gently detached the grip Dean had on the edge of his shirt.

The water bottle and tube were tossed aside onto the floor.

“You do this?" Sam asked.

Dean wasn’t sure what Sam was gesturing at. His hand seemed to encompass all the glittering remains of whatever contained glass in the room beyond the locker. The knocked over tables. The scattered papers. The over turned chairs. A smashed in television set. The dented and cracked plaster.

"Most of it." The man said.

Sam cracked his knuckles into two ready fists.

"Then I guess it's nice to meet you."

The man backed out of the locker as Sam advanced.

“Sam—“ He gasped out when his brother disappeared back through the heavy freezer door and into the carnage of the front room. Dean struggled to sit up, maybe even stand up but he collapsed back onto the gritty floor. Unsure whether to clutch his broken arm or somehow try to keep as far away from it as possible, he writhed in frustration at not being able to see and hear what was going on. There were words, heated and growing louder the further they walked away.

They didn't talk for very long.

He tried one more time to roll up on his right side so he could get up on his knees. Dean fell back with a cry as his wounded arm shifted horribly in two different directions. "Godammit..."

He was pathetic. He let his head drop back with defeat on the floor. Pathetic was just about all he had in him about now.

Sam’s voice came from the room beyond.

“Don't move Dean!”

His return sentiment was cut off by the beginning of a very loud series of noises. Splintering wood, the clang of metal falling against tiled floors, yelling and cursing, none of which were his brother’s-- Dean was surprised there was anything left to break in there. Nothing left but another man’s face and body. He flinched when he heard the broad front bay window go.

Then it all stopped.

"S-Sammy?" He coughed when he tried to speak loud enough to be heard.

From the floor he could hear the outside noises, fading in and out with his focus. He'd grown accustomed to the world lately on hearing alone. The start of a distant engine outside, the wind, his own ragged breathing.

Whatever came through that door, he knew he would not be stopping it. Heavy footsteps returned to the freezer locker, grinding through broken glass and debris.

But it was Sam's breathing, loud and slow.

His brother was quickly at his side.

Dean saw his lip was still healing from that punch he’d taken so long ago down in that barn. But considering the ruckus Dean had just heard, he was surprised to only see a grazed cheek, a puffy eye and some skinned knuckles.

“Y-ou ok, what the hell happened—uhHhh!

His brother had leaned down and unceremoniously picked him up, standing Dean upright as quickly as he could with a grip on his good wrist to pull him up over and across Sam’s shoulders.

"Don't worry about it, we just gotta get outta here."

The world was suddenly upside down once again, care taken not to hold onto his broken arm, and one hand firmly up around his thigh to keep him in place. Glimpses of the destroyed room flashed beneath him but there was no sign of the hunter that had left him in the freezer. Sam hefted him for a better grip, the pain sinking sickeningly down his arm and making him grit his teeth. As the fresh night air hit his face, Dean half expected the hood to be replaced and the sound of a trunk being opened.

But instead he heard the familiar creak of a car door.

He was set down carefully, and stopped when he tried to just get himself seated like a normal person. He was still trying to get his other leg in the door when Sam was already at him from the opposite side, sliding him across the back seat on his back. The motion made Dean stutter out another stifled cry as his arm twisted against his side.

“Easy, easy...” Sam said tensely over him as he arranged Dean as well as he could.

The door slammed behind Dean’s head, causing the entire car to rock. The driver’s side swung open and the engine turned, the sound of her making him feel like he'd just walked into his own house after a year of being away.

“How-how did you, how—“

Sam half smiled at him over his shoulder as he backed the car up. “78 registered vacant properties in this town. Only 4 had meat lockers.”

“Ah.” Dean said. Hunters were in their very own special ways, some of the most predictable people that walked the planet.

Sam rummaged through a bag at his side as he drove, carefully checking the mirrors as he did so. He pulled out a syringe and pulled off the cap with his teeth.

“Can you do it yourself?” Sam asked glancing back at him.

Dean held up his shackled right hand, taking his left hand agonizingly along with it.

With the car shaking like it was, and the numbness in his bloody hands, he didn’t bother trying to be delicate about it. He sank the needle into the side of his thigh right through the fatigues he wore. Wincing a little bit at the length of the spike, he thumbed down the plunger, emptying the contents of the thing before yanking it out and tossing it on the floor.

“What was that?” Dean thought now to ask.

Sam was turning another corner, the engine roaring louder as she picked up some real speed. They had already hit the interstate.

“Ask me again in 10 seconds.” Sam told him.

10 seconds?

Dean felt the pain in his arm suddenly subside with a warm rush to a dull ache. His painful hands faded to almost normal. Every other ache, in his knees, his back, his elbows, his face, all of them were diminished. Every cut and scratch that covered his skin seemed too cool, like a wet cloth was pressed all over his body.

“Wh-why 10, wha’s with the… the… seconds…”

Dean’s head fell back against the car seat, too heavy to keep up on his own power.

“How you doin’ back there Dean?” Sam shifted into the left lane, passing several semi trucks and letting them slip past in the windows.

“I’m… I…”

Dean was out before the count.

 

 

 

 

 

 

All he knew for certain when he started knowing again was that he had no idea where he was.

Memories and vague pictures matched incorrectly with the hands on him. He lashed out weakly when someone tried to grab hold of his wrists. All he craved was stillness. Quiet. Nothing to move or jar him, nothing to wake him back to his body that no longer made sense. Just shut the fuck up. End it. Game over.

But the hands didn't listen.

Sensation confused with sound, swinging like a pendulum, up close then far away. Light fractured each time he opened his eyes, making everything unrecognizable.

"Here." He heard someone say at one time.

Dean never felt himself leave, never saw the world shift.

Someone had his hands. Sharp, tiny jabs at his palms and fingers, as though he were being stung again and again by some insect. He flexed and tried to stop it but his movements were useless. Red stains on metal. More relentless picking, the pain exquisite.

His words when they rose from his throat were strange.

"Shhhh..." He heard them say.

The click-click-click-clink! and the gentle tugging on his wrists made him open his eyes again.

It was Sam who was leaning over his body with the small needle like tools that could free him of the heavy steel trapping his hands. Confused, Dean turned his head slightly, saw the stark walls of a motel room, the beige sheets and even beiger walls. The curtains were drawn but every lamp in the place was on, flooding the small room with as much light as possible.

There was a towel spread on the bed beside them, bloody pieces of glass covered it like some kind of bizarre mosaic. It was all the glass from his hands. He wondered vaguely how he had slept through their removal.

Pulling the right side of the handcuffs up and off, Sam was even more careful with the left. He paused when he finally lifted the binds away, a small sound of disgust in the back of his throat when he saw the plastic clinch cord biting into the soft flesh of Dean’s wrists under all of that metal.

“This'll hurt like hell Dean.” Sam did not look at him.

Dean swallowed, the promise in the words were nothing he hadn’t been repeating to himself each time one of those men came near him. Let it hurt. It, just like any and every other hurt he’d ever had, wouldn’t last forever.

The flat of the knife had to dig into his flesh just a little, his wrists were swollen from being constricted, the snap and release of the bands left red bracelet like grooves in his skin, the blood rushing back and setting his palms and fingers aflame. He gasped and resisted more than a little when Sam took his hands, both recently de-glassed, and roughly rubbed them as hard as he could to promote circulation.

“Coulda lost a hand like that.” Sam mumbled to himself.

Dean didn’t feel like dwelling on what life would be without his hands so he didn’t. He concentrated on the painful life that was returning to his shaking fists, and the blissful feel of the cinch no longer biting into the open wounds they had created.

Besides, there was plenty more damage where that came from.

His muted panic flared at the scent of chemicals, the vague fumes of alcohol making him jerk. Wrists were wrapped neatly in bandages. His issued army shirt carefully removed with the fine razor sharp edge of a knife. The fabric almost had to be peeled from his skin, sticky with sweat but mostly blood. Dean heard himself choke back his pain when the cloth caught and stuck on a wound, plastered into it with congealed blood.

Sam moved slower, became more careful as he removed it. Warm water and a white cloth washed away the rusty stains to reveal the slashed skin beneath, antiseptic stung before it quickly numbed, piece by piece by piece…

Every now and then Sam would pause and quietly monitor his heartbeat with one finger across his wrist, Dean’s pulse fierce and thudding as his heart pounded from the mixture of medicines he’d been forced and what he had taken.

Fingers were on his face, dabbing and cleaning. The softness of cotton gauze under his nose, his lip. A sudden sharp stab of pain where the gauze pressed too forcefully over his temple made his breath hitch and the fingers quickly withdrew.

“Try not to move." Sam's voice hovered close to his face.

The fingers returned more gently this time. He heard Sam hiss up close, sounds warped and magnified.

"Damn. You're a mess."

Even smiling hurt. Weakly Dean tried to raise his hand to feel his own face. He gasped as he was reminded severely that he couldn't move very much without igniting everything off in his body like fireworks.

If he could have managed the eloquence, he would have asked Sam to pity him and crack open a bottle of Southern Comfort. He wanted unconsciousness again by any means.

"That bad?" Sam asked as if he had heard him speak his thoughts out loud. "I dunno Dean, you took a hefty shot of morphine in the car."

Dean nodded, eyes traveling hopefully to the liquor cabinet. Sam's mouth turned up in a tired grin.

"No way, dude." Sam tossed the used and bloodied gauze aside and picked up a fresh one.

As he worked, he lapsed back into a concentrated silence. It was about then that Sam’s attention finally turned to Dean’s left arm. With a pointed look and a sigh, he lifted it.

"Nnnnghh!" Was the only noise he could make around the pain, teeth gritted hard, his right fist wadding the blanket up underneath him in a sweaty grip.

Sam went right ahead and bent it at the elbow experimentally. Just like Dad had taught them. Almost better than an x-ray if you did it right. Not that any of that mattered now. The pain left him panting, vision white. Instantly the grip slackened.

“Does your hand feel numb, you know tingling?” Sam decided to rephrase that considering the circumstances. “I mean, more than it should?”

Tingling meant the circulation wasn’t returning. Sam would have to realign his arm. Goddamnit.

"It’s okay." Sam's hand was firm on his shoulder, stilling him. "I’ll be quick."

Dean watched his brother carefully run fingers down the length of his arm and take hold of it in two places. Breathing hard, Dean wet his lower lip and braced himself. “B-Be faster than quick be—AHhuuHH--!”

His vision was dazzled by pain, the drugs taking the edge off and leaving him with the dull feel of bone sliding back into the right places. It hurt so badly that it barely hurt at all, leaving him dizzy and his head full of the buzz of white noise. His sight tunneled in and out and he thought he might be about to check out again.

“Breathe Dean.”

He realized he had been holding his breath, and he let it out with a whimper of hurt disbelief. A wet cloth meticulously wiped his arm clean, and a temporary splint was fitted tight around it, the shoulder harness holding it even tighter to his body. Ice packs came next, over and under his limb to keep the swelling down.

“Is… over, is it over…?” He mumbled to the reeling ceiling.

“Try to rest now.”

Dean resisted the urge to check if the motel’s lock was set one more time.

“Just go to sleep Dean.” Sam told him. “I’m not even going to blink.”

Dean looked at his brother for a second before he let the relief of that thought settle over him. Knowing Sam wouldn’t sleep while he did made it okay to let go of his vigilance for just a little while.

His arm throbbed in a distant echo of the agony it had been. The splint and wrapping so tight he couldn’t shift and move around to cause him pain. They’d get it set right tomorrow, in another county where he could claim he fell off of a ladder, some steps, something high enough but not strange enough to warrant his damage.

Dean stopped and stared at the glass of water Sam set by his bed side. His stomach churning with the thought of Sam picking it up and trying to help him drink it.

Sam didn’t miss his look.

“Just in case you get thirsty ok? It’ll be right there.”

Dean closed his eyes and fought back the sickness growing in his gut. It was just a glass. He could drink it if and when he wanted.

A small series of beeps made his eyes open again.

Sam was on his cell.

“W-What you doin’?”

Sam was sitting on the opposite bed with his back to him.

“They still have your phone.”

Dean felt himself go cold and immediately loathed himself for feeling it. “So-So what? Issa piece of shit, they can have it—“

Sam looked at him over his shoulder.

“I’m not done yet Dean.”

Dean lay back down and swallowed back whatever else he was going to say. There was nothing he could do to stop whatever it was that was about to happen next. This thing wasn’t quite played through yet. Sam hadn’t finished just about everything he had set out to do.

“Hello.” Sam said affably. “This is Sam Winchester.”

Dean watched his brother use a voice that was usually accompanied by a smile. There was no smile. Just full concentration on the voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes. Yes. Looks like you lost him doesn’t it?”

Dean watched his brother nod in the ensuing silence.

“Tomorrow would be perfect.”

The phone clicked closed.

"No Sam." He heard himself whisper. Three of them. One of him. Suicide. No.

"It's gonna be okay." Sam shifted to lay down on his bed. The sharp metallic sound of a safety clicked on and off. "Go to sleep."

As he drifted, Dean suddenly felt about six years old.

tbc

part 7 - (Completed- Continued in Indoctrination, also completed)


	7. Chapter 7

He was awake long before he heard water start running.

A weight settled next to him on his bed, the blanket was pulled back exposing his bare arm. The cool touch of alcohol and the quick clean bite of a needle and the pain that dully roared instantly quieted, his muscles relaxing from a tense rigidness he didn’t know he had until it started to fade. It was barely light outside. He kept his eyes closed listening to Sam dress, opened them a crack to catch him reaching behind to stuff his pistol down the back of his jeans. Dean heard his brother moving close to the night stand, setting something down on it.

The second he heard the door click shut, Dean was in action.

He sat up a little too fast, his head spinning and his stomach lurching. With a hand covering one eye so he could focus, he grabbed what was left folded neatly on the table.

Sam had left him a note.

Be back soon.

Idiot.

Dean growled as he crumpled it in his fist. The new drugs were doing their work, but his injuries were a day old, his body now acutely aware of its abuse. He gritted his teeth and focused against the pain as he struggled into a flannel, his splinted arm stiff and awkward under an empty sleeve. His boots were still without laces, so they were the easiest to handle. He barely had them on his feet when the front door clicked behind him. Panting, he made it to the back of the motel just in time to see the Impala turn a corner. Heart thudding in his chest, Dean scanned the parking lot in a panic.

The only other living being awake at this hour was leaning against his cab, drinking a cup of coffee. Frantically, Dean dug through his pockets and made his way over to him.

"Hey--!" He cleared his tortured throat. "Hey you! I need a ride!"

"Sorry. Off duty." The driver said blearily.

"Look, it's an emergency! Here!" Dean shoved the wad of twenties into the man's confused hand. "Did you see that Chevy pass by?"

"Uh-huh." The man was now at full attention.

"Follow it!"

The driver hurriedly tossed his cup into a waste bin and even had the courtesy to open the passenger door.

"Need a hand?" The driver asked, noticing Dean's careful movements.

"Nah. Just drive! Drive!" Dean grunted as he eased himself into the car.

He knew Sam would try to talk. Dialogue with men like these was dead air, fragile courtesies upheld until someone pulled a trigger. Dean had to wonder just how much control his little brother thought he had over this game.

 

 

 

 

 

He made sure the cab stopped one block short of where he finally saw the Impala’s brake lights lock into park.

Industrial sectors made too much noise for many people to live comfortably. Noise covered screams, no witnesses covered secrets. The looming facades of brick buildings standing silently in a row seemed almost to beg for questionable acts. Dean definitely did not like where this was going. Moving as fast as possible to the corner, he watched the black parked car carefully as the cab pulled away in the opposite direction. The engine still idling, he saw Sam get out and without much haste, walk up to a locked garage door. It looked like it was built for trucks that came in for loading and unloading. About a dozen feet of corrugated steel broke the morning silence as it rolled up noisily.

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

His brother got back into the car and drove in through the open door. Sam reappeared briefly to shut it back down behind him. He took a look up and down the street first before satisfying himself that it was all clear. Ducking back against the brick wall, Dean silently cursed himself for having no weapon of any kind on him. It was all in the car and the car was just locked into a warehouse. His eyes went up the side of the building he was hiding behind. An overflowing dumpster sat right under a fire escape.

Dean smiled.

Two of his very best friends.

 

 

 

 

 

Climbing wasn’t easy.

In fact, he had to stop every several feet to catch his breath and try not to toss up the breakfast he didn’t have.

The pain killers worked but the trade off was being nauseous as hell. He paused, pressing his sweaty forehead against the fire rung he had gripped tightly in his good hand. The cool metal felt good on his skin as he panted slowly, his stomach settling and his aching right arm getting a short rest. His hand had begun to burn under the bandage after he’d cleared the first two floors, and by the time he legged over onto the third floor escape landing, damp red was beginning to stain his palm. He shouldered the metal fire exit open and found himself in a dark stairwell. He headed down, finding the second floor door completely missing all together. He stopped before he went through because he could hear something.

People talking. Echoing and vague like voices in a parking garage.

Easing around the corner, he found another staircase going down to the warehouse floor, the first and second story open to the air, big and broad enough for a fleet of freight trucks to park comfortably along the rows upon rows of ramps. But not today, the place was completely empty.

Almost.

The Impala was parked down there, and not very far away was a large four door pick up. So this was the meeting place. Dean moved down the stairs, keeping his eyes on the group of men standing between the vehicles about a dozen yards away. Sam was standing alone with a rifle raised and aimed, and the hunters stood opposite him, their hands slightly up in begrudging compliance. Only two of them. The older of the two that always went and left Dean alone with their younger cohort.

The massive place was littered with random wide cement support beams. Dean got up behind one and turned his head as best he could to catch everything they were saying.

“What’s with the rifle?” The hunter asked. “Thought you wanted this nice and peaceful.”

“Thought I asked you to come unarmed.”

The old man shrugged and grinned, like a kid caught stealing from the jar.

“You called. We came. Now where is he?”

Sam backed up slowly to the Impala and yanked open the trunk. Dean quickly thought of a dozen ways he could reach the stash of weapons concealed there, if those guys were armed this was going to get—

“Come on, get on out.” Sam said.

To Dean’s shock, the hunter’s numbered by three after all. The man that had tormented him for so many days was there, trapped in the car’s trunk since… yesterday? His face was bloodied and he looked bleary eyed and confused, but he was alive. Dean slumped back against the dank cement support. That meant Sam had known all along that there would have been at least one man left to guard him in that butcher shop. And that meant Sam had made sure to clear out the trunk so that it could nicely fit a person. So much for that sawed off he wished he was holding right about now.

Sam nudged the injured man in the back with his rifle. “Search your friends here for me. Toss everything you find on the ground.”

The man hesitated, dazed and not a little apprehensive.

"Now!"

Even Dean jumped slightly at his brother's shout.

The wary man looked back and forth between his mentors and the loaded weapon. With a sigh, he limped over to the older men and started patting them down. The sharp hard rattle of firearms hit the concrete, once, twice, three times before Dean heard the metallic clatter of a heavy knife join them.

“All of it.” Sam suggested when it appeared the search had ended.

Hazarding a look, Dean saw the older men's confidence crumble a little bit when their protégé searched down around their ankles and produced one more pistol and a throwing blade. Now it really was all in Sam’s hands.

“I brought you something besides him.”

Sam reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded manila envelope. It was thick and heavy. He held it up so they could get a good look at it.

“Hardcopy documents of all your IDs, double copies for all of you. Last you your lifetime. Put it all away in a safe deposit box and you’ll never have to worry about it again.”

“Why? Why you doing this?” The hunter asked.

“All I ask is that we end this right now and we go our separate ways.”

“But—“

“Step backwards please.” Sam asked. “About six feet.”

Dean watched them comply, walking unsteadily up onto one of the loading ramps. It looked pretty much like all the others but this one was lined in safety orange tagging and reflective warning signs.

“Right there.” Sam lowered his rifle and smiled. “That’s perfect.”

He slapped a large round button and suddenly the warehouse roared with noise. Startled, Dean rounded the column to see the platform the men stood on was now slowly lifting up towards the second floor. It was a loading lift. Like an open elevator. And there was no easy way down. The crank and whir of the engines that extended it upwards slowly quieted. The groan and hiss of the hydraulics whined to a halt as it reached its destination.

Somewhat amused, the old man rested his hands on the railing and looked down the good twenty five feet at Sam.

“What are we doing now, standing up here to death?”

“For a while.” Sam nodded up to them. “See ya’ll later. Well, not really, but ya know, bye.”

Dean was standing behind him, still unnoticed. His fists clenched so tight they shook.

“Sam... wait.”

His brother jerked around, his rifle half way up before he realized who it was. “Dean? What are you doin-“

“You can't leave it like this, its not… they won’t stop—“

"What're you talkin' about? Dean, what are you--?"

"Boy's right."

Dean and Sam turned to look up at them. The old guy was leaning forward, his elbows resting easily on the chipped rusted iron.

"There are whole lot less of us out there huntin’ than you know." He spat on the floor beside him. "There’s even less among them worth the salt it would take to burn em."

Dean stood very still, aware he was staring and forcing himself to blink.

"But you." The old man grinned a tobacco-stained smile at Dean. "Your Daddy made you just right."

"Shut up." Dean's vast archive of cheap retaliation was gone. A series of comments designed out of thin air to annihilate and nullify anything he wanted. But now he had nothing.

"Not many like you that were all grown up with it." He looked at him in appreciation. "Not even me. Do you get how rare a boy like you is?"

"And Sam?" Dean suddenly said defiantly, finally seeing some ground he could toss back in this man's face. "He grew up just like I did, he did everything I--"

"And he went and ran off didn't he?" The old guy's grin faded.

Sam shifted uncomfortably beside him.

Dean jerked a pointed finger up at them all. "You don't know shit about him--!"

"I know everything about him." He interrupted softly. "And I know all about you. Man in my business makes it his mission to know who's playin’ in his cornfield."

"How could-- you don’t know anything." Dean realized his chest was heaving and that this guy had managed to push him into the defensive. “You don’t know fucking anything.”

"Your brother couldn't stomach the work that needed to be done. Not like you. You know how deep down the rabbit hole goes. Don't ya?"

Dean swallowed back his next words, his good hand clenching at his side.

"We'll be seein' you again Dean." The older man said softly between the bars. There was a trace of a smile that held a promise with it. “You can bet on it.”

Dean felt himself step backwards once before he could help it.

"Hey!"

Sam's voice startled him.

“Don’t listen to him.” His brother said quietly, but his sure and determined demeanor was gone. “We're done here. It'll be okay. C'mon."

Dean was still trembling in rage.

“ _We can’t leave them here, we have to—_ “

Sam grabbed his good arm, hard around the bicep to stop him and look him in the eye.

“I said it’ll be okay.”

Dean didn’t answer.

He just shrugged his arm free and headed towards the car.

 

 

 

 

 

“Did you get them what they wanted?” Dean asked angrily.

“Huh?”

Sam was distracted behind the wheel, negotiating the odd turns and twists that made up the network of roads of the empty industrial park. Once again, he seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the way of plans that only he himself was party to.

“Oh yeah.” Sam finally answered. “I sure did.”

“Why are you so damn happy about it?” Dean demanded suspiciously. “You did everything but take out a fuckin’ mortage for ‘em.”

“Gave all three of them IDs that no one will ever need anymore. Ran it across every single which way. It’s all airtight unless someone takes a picture of them and physically takes it to the computer archives to do a comparison.”

Knowing how one could use two different credit cards in the same store without being asked for one driver’s license, Dean had to agree. That was pretty airtight.

“So what did you do?” Dean leaned back into the passenger seat, too tired to do anything else but just sit there. “Airline idents? FBI? CIA? Tom, Dick and Harry from Duluth?”

“Nope.”

“Then whose lives did you give them?”

The sudden shrill sound of a police sirens blared as they came into view, speeding down the narrow road and going swiftly pass them in the opposite direction towards the warehouse. Sam watched the frantic flashing lights in the rear view, a small grin coming to his face.

“Ours.”

 

 

 

 

~Epilogue~

 

A month came and went.

A doctor said Dean had been lucky and on the outside he’d only need the cast for less than the remainder of the year. Sam signed it with ‘thanks for such a bitchin’ summer’. It was funny at first but became less so as the weeks wore on and Dean still had to look at it. He eventually crossed it all out with a black marker and morphed it into a bad skull and cross bones that looked more like well, a blob with an X going through it.

He learned to work around and with it. And after a while he forgot it was there all together. Everything else healed quickly. His hands. His wrists. All the marks and slashes faded and faded until he barely noticed them in the shower any longer.

They got several phone calls. The most urgent from Bobby who had heard through the various grapevines that the ‘Winchesters’ had been picked up by the federal police. But he had also heard they never made it to trial, their van in a convoy headed for the state capital for processing had some kind of accident and they all went missing.

All three.

Bobby was mostly curious about that number.

Dean explained what he could. He asked Bobby to keep it himself no matter how much he trusted he would even if not asked. Sam’s ploy had worked in both directions, for the people in the real world and the people like them. They were news for both, but as good as ghosts at the same time.

It had worked out even better than Sam probably could have even hoped.

Dean rolled his new phone in his hand. The sun was just about to go down and he thought about trying to find something to eat before they headed out again but his stomach wasn’t feeling right. His throat flashed in a phantom pain that made his jaw clench, his hands twitched in memory of fine slivers of gray television glass. He rubbed the palm of his right hand into his eyes. It was just then that his phone rang again.

The glowing display made his breath catch in his throat.

It was showing the old number from the phone he’d lost. The phone that had been taken. It would have been seized by the police. Locked away in some evidence locker. Sold with other lost and founds. Tagged and left in a box. There was no way it could have managed to —

“You ready to go?” Sam asked as he hefted his duffel.

Dean stared at his cell until the ringing stopped, the display going dark and dead.

“Yeah.” He said, "Sure."

Tucking the phone away, Dean followed his brother out into the twilight.

 

the end? (nope)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mink’s notes:
> 
> When I was writing this I really got into thinking about this different breed (if there is even one solid breed of hunter) of hunters that not only not like to operate alone, but out of necessity, forcibly recruit those they need. Finding Dean is like finding a black hawk helicopter amongst paper airplanes. You’d want him on your side. You’d want him as your solider and tool.  
> Because I wanted these hunters to find Dean again. And this time they’d know exactly what to do to avoid any unneeded complications. They would have him long enough to start that training that would really make him theirs to keep.
> 
> SO to be continued in 'Indoctrination' which is 11 chapters and completed.

**Author's Note:**

> As if all fan fiction isn't pure indulgence, but hurt!Dean is a big one for me HOWEVER even better is something I haven't written often if at all.... It's just well... nice... and I'd rather find it out there than write it myself. SO in request and fellow writer jinkamoo, I give you a what I find almost better than a bowl of cheesecake ice cream on top of a warm brownie while I sit on an evening beach on a southern isle while I listen to Simon Lebon apologize for their last album and take shrooms and then have a three way with Bale, Hauer (circa Bladerunner) and Alba.  
> Okay, maybe not that good, but I do have a thing for abducted Dean.  
> A huge thing.  
> -Mink


End file.
